


Stay With Me

by Kaye_Fraser



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas proposal, Established Relationship, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, M/M, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles Stilinski, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaye_Fraser/pseuds/Kaye_Fraser
Summary: Derek likes where his life is at, and where it is heading. But events take a devastating turn when he's taken by Hunters, and everything he holds close is jeopardized.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 80
Collections: Sterek Goodness, The Sterek Secret Santa - Edition 2019





	Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suburbanmotel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/gifts).



> Hello!
> 
> This is a Sterek Secret Santa gift for suburbanmotel, who noted 'Angst with a Happy Ending' as a like. I may have been a bit heavy-handed on the angst part. My apologies!

"Filthy dog!"

Derek landed heavily on the concrete floor, and even though his captors' unceremonious push had jostled his already fuzzy head and knocked the wind right out of him, he refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing his pain grunt. He looked up at the three men outside his small cell from beneath hooded eyes, schooling his features into complete blankness. Out of sheer pride and stubbornness, he would not reveal any of the weakness he felt throughout his whole body.

These men were Hunters. He'd noticed that easily. It was in the tone of their voices, the arrogance of their postures ... the hatred on their faces. But why? Why him, and why after all these years? He'd thought rogue factions like these had been dealt with long ago. 

He clenched his jaw and briefly squeezed his eyes shut, partly to ease the wave of dizziness that washed through him, but mainly to contain that anger at himself for being such a wide open target. Stiles was definitely going to mock how he'd gotten soft with old age once he got out of here. He blinked several times, trying to keep his mind and vision clear. It didn't work.

"How long before he's out?" a Hunter – the one with dark eyes and a deep scar along his left cheek – asked. 

"He should be out already. Mutt's stronger than I thought. Just leave him until the elixir does its thing." The cell door – thick bars of reinforced metal – slammed shut. The ensuing click of the lock was abnormally loud. 

Shit. He slumped tiredly against the nearby wall once the Hunters began to walk away. As much as he wanted to overpower his captors and make some daring escape, his body was not in the mood to cooperate. Whatever they'd shot him up with earlier must've contained wolfsbane or some derivative thereof because he couldn't muster the strength to stand, much less break open the door. He blinked again, his eyelids suddenly weighing more than he was willing to support. He wanted to rub the grogginess away, but his arms might as well have been tied down with ten ton weights.

Once the distant footsteps of the Hunters faded, silence settled eerily around him. There was nothing – no one. And given the losing battle he was fighting with consciousness, he begrudgingly gave in and closed his eyes.

(***)

He struggled – and failed – to wake up multiple times. The brief recollections of the light fading from his cell flittered at the edges of his memory like phantom fingers, impermanent and ephemeral. Then, at an indeterminate hour, he jolted awake, spine ramrod straight and eyes wide open. He looked around, and saw nothing but the stark, flat surface of his cell's walls, and the dark outline of the bars.

Suddenly, he heard it. He stilled, and realized what had woken him. The faint, rapid staccato tapping away nearby was unmistakable. 

"Stiles?" His voice sounded raspy from the dryness.

There was the muted shuffle of limbs against concrete, and he could practically picture the other man's scrambling movements. 

"Derek?" The familiar voice eased the tension in his muscles. "Fuck, I was waiting for you at the café but you never showed. Now I know why."

He grunted an affirmative response. "Was on my way to meet you for lunch when they got me. I didn't see them until it was too late." He moved over to the bars of the door, and tried to determine which cell they'd put Stiles in. He pushed at the metal – hard. The last thing he'd wanted was for the other man to be put in danger, and if he could pick out Stiles' heartbeat, then perhaps his strength had returned too.

But the bars didn't budge. He gave them a frustrated punch, and was only rewarded with stinging knuckles. He cursed silently. Whatever drug they'd used was still in his system.

"What's wrong?" Worry seeped into Stiles' tone. "You okay?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. They just gave me something, and I'm not at full strength. I can't get us out."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the other man. "Just my luck, isn't it? I finally have time for a real, legitimate date – our first one in months, might I add – and it gets sidetracked by rogue Hunters. I mean, don't they realize that going rogue is so 2011? You can bet that Chris will be getting an earful from us about this!"

A corner of Derek's mouth lifted up fondly at the righteous indignation in the younger man's words. Still, Stiles was right: they hadn't had time for each other in months, and to say he was disappointed that their lunch plans had been derailed was an understatement. Stiles had wanted to pursue his career with the FBI, and seeing as Derek could do his freelance writing anywhere, he had followed the younger man to D.C. For five years, they'd made it work – together, both professionally and personally – so much so that Derek had gone out, bought a ring, and hidden it away in their apartment while waiting for the right moment. He had thought that two days from now would've been it. After all, Stiles had finally closed the big case that had consumed his life these past four months, and clichéd as it was, a Christmas proposal, surrounded by family and friends, felt like the ideal counterpoint to their tumultuous beginning.

"Well, at least Scott and the pack should be coming in tonight. When we're not there to pick them up, I'm sure they'll figure out something's wrong. They'll track us down, and we'll have a jolly, holly Christmas, just like we planned."

Derek raised an eyebrow at his boyfriend's optimism, a small smile playing on his lips despite their dire circumstances. Not surprisingly, things didn't seem so bleak when he was with Stiles. God, how he wanted to hold the other man right now, and give him a grateful kiss. Through everything they'd been through – from supernatural possessions to near-death experiences – they'd somehow managed to find each other, and remain relatively sane. Derek knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn't be where he was today – healthy and admittedly happy – without Stiles anchoring him. "So much faith," he deadpanned jokingly.

Stiles harrumphed, and Derek could picture the side-eye that likely accompanied it. "I'm trying to determine whether you're being sarcastic or not. You know, despite evidence to the contrary, Scott's a good friend. He's grown as a person. And as an alpha. He'll find us."

Derek shifted over to the nearby wall, and leaned back against it. "I'm sure he will," he breathed out. And he believed it. The years had served Scott and his pack well. 

"Besides," Stiles added after a beat. "I want my date, so we're getting out of here, come hell or high water. Though preferably not hell, since I think we've probably seen that enough times already. Figuratively speaking. Don't think the literal place would – "

Loud voices and heavy footsteps cut Stiles off, and almost instantly, Derek moved to the bars, pressing his face against them to get a glimpse of what was happening. He prayed their captors were after him, and Stiles was just there as leverage. He could take a lot, and with Stiles by his side, he could heal from almost anything. But Stiles ... as strong and as smart as he was, Stiles couldn't.

Sounds of a struggle filtered over, and he growled loudly when he realized they'd come from Stiles' cell. "Hey!" he shouted angrily. Panic and fury were a potent mix. "Leave him alone! You want me, don't you?" He hit the bars repeatedly, cursing his diminished strength, but dead set on making enough of a disturbance so they'd leave Stiles alone. "Hey, assholes, over here! You want a fight? You've got one right here, ready and willing! Or are you too chicken shit to pick on someone who can really fight back?"

They didn't react to him, didn't even acknowledge him, and before long, they'd dragged Stiles away. And even through the resistance the younger man had put up, Derek noticed that Stiles purposely ignored him, refusing to bring any attention to him. Stupid, foolish, brave Stiles, who probably didn't want to make Derek a target.

"Hey, over here!" Derek continued to shout, regardless of the futility of it now. He hated feeling so powerless, so helpless, but he needed to do something. He didn't want to even consider what they would do to Stiles, and indirectly, what they would do to him.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of constant noise on his part, the scarred hunter from earlier came into his line of sight, dark eyes gleaming with hate, and mouth slanted up in distaste. Derek quieted, and settled for a low, threatening growl that reverberated in the back of his throat.

"Shut the fuck up, you mangy mongrel."

Before Derek could register what was happening, his captor raised an arm, and pulled the trigger of the gun in his hands. Derek froze at the pinprick sensation on his neck, and within seconds, his body dropped, his head meeting the ground with a crack before he fell into complete darkness.

(***)

He woke next to loud shouts and gunfire. He tried to move, but the grogginess in his head and the lethargy of his limbs defied that intention. It took him a few moments before he remembered where he was, but when he did, he forced his body to move. 

Stiles! He rolled over with the speed of a ninety year old man, and practically crawled to the cell door. He listened carefully for his boyfriend's distinctive heartbeat, and heard nothing. The Hunters hadn't brought him back. Worry clawed at his chest, ravaging his thoughts and tainting his rationality.

He started to call out to his captors, to curse them out, and condemn everything they were and everything they'd done, but he stopped when the shouts of a familiar voice made its way into his cell. He listened carefully for a few more seconds to be sure, but that was definitely Scott's voice intermingled between the sounds of fighting. Relief flooded through him. Not surprisingly, Stiles had been right in placing his faith with his best friend, and he looked forward to the younger man rubbing in that fact. With any luck, the alpha had already rescued Stiles, and Derek just had to wait for his turn.

Patience had never been one of his strong suits, and it certainly wasn't his friend now as he waited for the sounds to die down. The gunshots became fewer and further apart, which was a good indication that the Hunters were losing the battle, and Derek indulged himself by imagining their long, painful deaths. Of course, knowing Scott, that was likely not even close to the truth, but he could dream, especially given that those assholes had hurt Stiles.

Soon, he sensed the arrival of Scott and managed to pull himself up to stand on wobbling legs, just as the man in question appeared outside his cell, eyes still red and chest heaving as if expecting more enemies. The younger werewolf calmed when he noticed none forthcoming.

"Scott," Derek said lowly in greeting. "Nice of you to drop by."

A lopsided grin changed the other man's demeanor. He assessed the bars of the cell door. "Well, you know, I was in the neighborhood anyways," he replied with a nonchalant shrug. Then, he grabbed the metal bars, and yanked – hard. The hinges and lock buckled with a shrill, prolonged squeak, and within seconds, Derek was free. 

He nodded his thanks to the younger werewolf as the broken door was tossed aside. "Did you get Stiles already?" he asked as he stepped out of the confined space. Already, he felt stronger, steadier.

"Stiles?" Scott narrowed his eyes in confusion. "No, I thought he would be here with you. His scent – "

"Scott!" A panicked voice that sounded distinctly like Malia's came from a nearby cell, startling Derek as he hadn't noticed his cousin slip by them.

Without a thought, Scott ran over to the other open cell, Derek following closely behind. But then, the younger werewolf stopped abruptly at the entrance, causing Derek to almost bowl him over.

"Scott, wha—"

There were moments in Derek's life when reality had felt suspended, where he'd watched the events unfold around him like he was watching it from afar. His family's deaths had been one of those moments. Losing his small pack had been another. But this ... this reality, where Malia was crouched down – open-mouthed and wide-eyed – over Stiles' unmoving form, was as far from being real as he could possibly fathom. There was no heartbeat. Why wasn't there a heartbeat? No one moved, as if everyone was afraid that any further progression beyond this point in time would make the situation permanent.

In the distance, Derek barely made out the thumping of additional footsteps, and absently registered that the rest of the pack was making their way here. He took a step forward. And then, he took another. He moved toward Stiles, unconsciously edging Malia out of the way, and knelt down. Stiles would be embarrassed if the others saw him like this – hot shot FBI analyst, sprawled so inelegantly on the dirty cell floor. He pulled the familiar weight of the younger man against him. Maybe he could protect Stiles' reputation if he held him close enough. He lowered his head, and nuzzled his boyfriend's temple, trying to soak up that faint, comforting scent. "I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you. Please, stay with me ... please."

His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. Stiles was in his arms, where he should be ... where he should always be. 

"Derek," Scott said softly. "We should –"

"No." Derek spared the other werewolf a brief glance before focusing back on the precious weight in his arms. He tried to block out those tear-filled eyes and that grief-stricken face. "Just let me ..." He tightened his hold, at a loss for words. "Please," he said brokenly. "Just ... please ..."

(***)

Derek kicked the door closed with his heel, dropped his overnight bag where he stood, and tossed his keys onto the side table by the entrance. His shoulders slumped as he took in the darkened apartment around him, the shadowed shapes of the furniture and appliances standing as sentinels in the lifeless space. Even the little, decorated Christmas tree watched him from the corner.

The quiet was almost oppressive, a heavy weight that threatened to suffocate him. It was a marked contrast to the non-stop activity since his flight to Beacon Hills for the funeral. For the last week and a half, he'd felt as if he'd lived another man's life, being pulled like a mindless zombie from the Hunters' compound to Beacon Hills for funeral arrangements, and then returning back to D.C. to pick up the pieces of what remained of his soul. Then again, maybe it was the last five years that had been another man's life, and this was just him getting back in touch with his reality. Because, really, since when and in what fantasy world did Derek Hale ever get a happy ending?

He walked sluggishly over to the table of their – no, his – open-concept kitchen, and fell, boneless, onto a chair. He stared sightlessly down at the deep scratch in the wood grain of the table's surface, and remembered when he'd lifted Stiles onto it, body half-naked and lips kiss-swollen. They'd belatedly realized that Stiles' keys had been pinned underneath, and the gouge had been a result of that small oversight.

Derek closed his eyes, and breathed out a slow breath. He wasn’t sure why, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything at the memory. Perhaps he was still in shock, or perhaps that part of him had died back there in that cell as well. Either way, he didn't really care.

(***)

_"You okay, Derek?"_

_He turned to watch the Sheriff approach, his dark suit looking out of place under the bright Californian sun. He gave the older man a curt nod, and returned to staring at the overturned dirt and new gravestone. His lips thinned and he clenched his fists involuntarily. Stiles had gone somewhere Derek couldn't follow, and that knowing smile, that boundless energy, and that addictive light had gone with him. And for Derek, it felt like part of him was buried down there too, withered and dead._

_"I just need a moment," he said after a pause. The rest of the funeral procession had already left the site, and he did honestly want some time alone._

_The Sheriff clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, and bowed his head. "I understand," the older man supplied softly. And if there ever was someone who did understand, it would be Stiles' father, a man who'd lost his wife, and now, his only son. Derek noticed the extra lines on the older man's face, the stoop in his posture. But he also knew that the Sheriff would recover. Stilinski men were resilient. And, he had a new lady in his life now, according to Stiles' eager gossiping last year, the new town librarian._

_"We'll be at the house for the wake when you're ready to join us," the older man offered._

_Derek nodded again, and the Sheriff started to walk away. Then, he remembered a question that had been hovering on the fringes of his mind since he'd landed in Beacon Hills a couple of days ago. "Noah," he called out, causing the other man to stop and turn around. "Are you happy?"_

_"Der –"_

_"Not right now, but in general. Will you ever be happy again?"_

_The older man's expression softened at the words. "It doesn't feel like it right now, Derek, but maybe one day, I will be. Happy, that is. I'll try. For Stiles. It's what he would've wanted."_

(***)

The ring was exactly where he'd left it. He grabbed it from the back of the broom closet shelf, opened the velvet box, and pulled the simple, circular piece of metal out. The titanium sat innocently in his palm – strong, simple, and perfect – just like its intended owner had been. He wrapped his fingers around it, his throat constricting at the things that could've been. And with a quick, impulsive motion, he whipped it across the room. It clattered multiple times, once against the exposed brick wall, and several against the polished hardwood before coming to rest somewhere behind the sofa. It didn't matter where it was now. In fact, he would've preferred it fall into a vent, never to be found again.

(***)

_"We're here," Scott stated as he pulled into the drop-off zone outside the Beacon Hills airport. Christmas decorations still adorned the multiple stanchions and entrances as rushed holiday travellers buzzed by, evidence that the world still went on in spite of everything that had happened._

_Derek nodded, and grabbed the car's door handle. "Thanks for the ride."_

_"Hey, wait, Derek."_

_He stopped, waiting for the younger werewolf to continue._

_"You going to be okay? I mean, back in D.C. Alone. You could always move – "_

_"I don't know, Scott." Derek watched the car in front of them drop off a passenger: a husband and a dad, if the hugs he was receiving from the woman and the little girl were any indication. Frankly, he was too numb to be moved by the heartwarming sight. "I'll figure something out."_

_"Alright, but you know we're here if you need anything. Me and the pack."_

_There was such sincerity and earnestness on Scott's face that Derek couldn't outright refuse him. "Sure, thanks." He made to get out of the car then, but paused one more time. "Hey, Scott," he said, tone neutral. "Will **you** be okay?"_

_There was sadness in the younger werewolf's eyes, a deep-seeded grief that could only be from losing someone close. "Not right now, but I will be. I've got the pack," the man noted resolutely. "And they've got me. We'll get through this, and we'll be stronger when we come out on the other side."_

_Derek watched his companion closely. He took in the set jaw, the determined gleam in his eyes, and he knew, without a doubt, that Scott had spoken the truth._

(***)

The apartment was a mess. What had started as a thrown ring had become an overturned table, several toppled chairs, and numerous tossed pillows. And distantly, Derek realized now that the anger had worked its course, it had sapped his energy, and left him feeling like a hollow shell.

At least everyone else would eventually be in a good place. Stiles would've made sure of it. The Sheriff had someone by his side to look after him. Scott had the pack, just as the pack had Scott. But where did that leave him? What was he supposed to do now with the empty shadow of his former life? 

He froze when his eyes caught the unmistakable outline of his laptop through the open bedroom door, sitting on his nightstand. He walked toward it. Perhaps there was something still left for him.

(***)

He slipped the storage facility's business card into the envelope along with the key to the large space he'd rented two days ago. Stiles, with all his attachment issues, hadn't wanted to leave his beloved jeep behind in Beacon Hills, and had driven the thing out here years ago. It was a miracle the old car hadn't broken down on the way, but now, it sat in the storage facility, right alongside the Camaro he'd bought three years ago for nostalgia's sake. He'd tossed the car keys onto the respective drivers' seats, on top of his personal papers, right before he'd locked up the rental space a day earlier. Now, he sealed the envelope, and dropped it into the mailbox. He hoped it would make it safely to Scott.

The cab was still waiting for him when he was done, and without any further delay, he hopped in and directed the driver to the nearest regional park – Fountainhead, as the case turned out to be. It would do.

The drive took over forty minutes, but in the end, he had the driver drop him off on a secluded back road, and paid the man handsomely for it. Once he was alone, he took a deep breath, and let the forest air permeate his lungs and saturate his bloodstream. He walked off the road and into the trees. When the foliage was dense enough, he started to strip, and when he was naked, he started to run. He ran, and then he shifted, his stride never breaking. As a wolf, things were simpler, free and unconfined. And when he ran like this, his mind was empty, save for the call of the wild - no emotions, no pain or hurt. And so he did. He ran, and through the forest, he could connect to an endless number of interconnected trails, which meant that he could run forever.

(***)

"Do you need anything else?"

Scott's tinny voice echoed loudly from his phone's speaker as Stiles poured the herbal mix from the mortar onto the ritual mat. "I should be good to try again. Thanks, buddy." 

"Okay, we're heading back to the hotel right now, but I'll give Deaton a call then to see if he has any other ideas, in case this doesn't work."

Stiles smiled gratefully at his best friend's offer, even though the other man couldn't see it. "Sounds good. And hey, sorry our Christmas plans got messed up. I know this wasn't what you expected when you decided to visit," he said. "But this is going to work. It has to. I'm not losing him."

"It's alright, and I know, Stiles. Call me, whatever happens, okay?"

"You got it." He partitioned the herbs into five even piles, and nodded in satisfaction with the setup. "Okay, gotta go. Doing magic I haven't done in years, and my appendages need to stay in the vehicle at all times."

" 'kay, later!"

Stiles ended the call, and looked over at the unnaturally still figure sitting upright on the edge of the bed. Unblinking hazel eyes stared blankly at him, as if there was no one home on the other side. "Just you and me now, big guy," he said softly.

When Derek hadn't shown up for lunch three days ago, Stiles hadn't thought much of it. He'd assumed that something must've come up. But when Derek hadn't called, texted, or come home in time to pick up Scott and the others from the airport, he'd known something was wrong. Between himself and the pack, they'd managed to track Derek's whereabouts to just outside D.C., but by the time they'd stormed the compound, overtaken the Hunters, and found Derek, he was already in a catatonic state. Stiles blamed himself for not finding his werewolf sooner, but he'd be damned if he didn't try everything to bring him back now.

The compound had reeked of magic – or so Scott had pointed out – and after a full day of research, Stiles was pretty sure those Hunters had somehow locked his boyfriend in his own mind. He supposed that as far as loopholes in the Code went, this was a pretty good one. They technically hadn't killed Derek, but his mind was far gone enough to be close.

"You're coming back to me, Derek." If it took years, decades even, he would get the werewolf back. Derek deserved to be happy, and he would make sure of it, even if it took him the rest of his life. With that thought in mind, he stepped around the mat, and started the memorized Latin chant.

(***)

The forest seemed very much like the Beacon Hills Preserve. Stiles did a slow three-sixty to get his bearings. The clearing in which he stood was small, but as with most dreams, the possibilities of what lay beyond the trees were endless. For what Derek's mind could've constructed as a possible prison, Stiles had expected worse.

"Now, to find you," he muttered as he tried to find the best place to start.

Then, he froze. Something – or someone – was watching him, stalking him, and he had a pretty good idea who that was.

"Derek," he called out, his voice carrying loudly through the still air. "It's me, Stiles. I'm here to bring you home."

Two points of iridescent blue shone brightly to his right, and he turned to meet the emerging form with a smile. "Hello, Sourwolf," he said fondly.

The black shape moved toward him slowly, growling lowly with teeth bared. Those blue eyes, deadly and sharp, never left him, and a frisson of apprehension ran down Stile's spine at their intensity. He reminded himself that this was Derek, his werewolf boyfriend who may have a scowling, intimidating exterior, but was honestly tender and loyal and protective on the inside.

"Derek, it's – "

Before he could get another word out, the wolf leapt at him, catching him unprepared and toppling him to the forest floor. Instinctively, he moved to protect his head, and felt the burn of sharp teeth puncturing the skin of his forearm as the heavy beast on top of him bit down.

"Derek," he breathed out through gritted teeth. He knew this was all in his head – or rather, Derek's head – but the bite still fucking hurt! Instead of trying to push his attacker away though, he pulled the mass of muscle toward him, hugging the wolf close and ignoring the searing pain that radiated from his arm. He buried his face in the wolf's fur, choosing to believe that his boyfriend, the man he'd come to love beyond all reason, was listening. "Hey, Derek, it's Stiles. Stay with me, okay? We're going home..."

(***)

Stiles woke up staring at the apartment ceiling with a heavy weight atop him – a heavy, moving, groaning weight. He shifted slightly to get a better idea of where he was. In the time he'd been travelling in Derek's mind, he must've fallen over onto the ritual mat. He sighed. The finely crushed herbs were going to be a bitch to clean.

His arm moved, and his fingers comfortingly worked their way through Derek's hair. "You with me, big guy?"

The body on him tensed, and then, just as suddenly, fell gracelessly onto him again. "Stiles?"

The mix of desperation, vulnerability, hope, and pain in that one word broke Stiles' heart. He continued to run his fingers soothingly through the other man's dark hair. "Yeah, it's me. The one and only," he confirmed quietly.

And just like that, he was enclosed in a bone-crushing hug. He let it be, and only responded by holding Derek close, even as the werewolf started to shake from frantic breaths and silent sobs.

(***)

The enticing smell of bacon and eggs greeted Derek when he opened his eyes. He stretched against the softness of his comforter, and easily picked up the sound of a familiar heartbeat in the next room. Three days, Stiles had said last night when he'd finally calmed down enough to talk. Even though it had seemed like so much longer, he'd been stuck in his head for three days, thinking his world had ended. He remembered the utter loss and devastation he'd felt with vivid clarity, and he wasn't sure how he'd survived such an experience. No, scratch that, he knew exactly how, and the answer was in the next room. He sat up, overtaken by the sudden need to simply be with Stiles.

Quickly and quietly, he padded his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He hugged the startled man dancing to Christmas carols in front of the stove from behind, and bent his head to place a kiss on that freckled neck. He breathed in the comforting scent, and prayed to every deity listening that he would be able to bask in this warmth for another seventy or eighty years, at least.

"Well, good morning to you too," Stiles said as he shut off the stove burner and leaned back into the embrace, spatula flailing. "How are you feeling?"

Derek took one more fortifying lungful of his companion's warm, spicy scent before answering. "Better now."

"Good." Stiles turned around in his arms, and something in Derek's chest constricted at the sight of the other man, smiling and alive – so, so very much alive.

"I thought we could celebrate Christmas a day late since we missed it yesterday. You know, spend the day together, and then hang out with Scott and the pack tomorrow before they leave."

Derek leaned forward and gave the other man a long, lingering kiss before making a sound of agreement.

Stiles eventually pulled away, looking thoroughly debauched with his eyes glazed and his lips swollen. "Yup, good decision to spend the day together."

Then, he straightened, a wicked glint overtaking that bright, brown gaze. "So, when Scott and I were trying to track you down, I may have used some agency resources to re-trace your steps," he started. He looked away guiltily. "I may have seen some transactions on your credit card that I shouldn't have ..."

Derek furrowed his brow, not immediately processing what the younger man was getting at. And then, realization set in. "Oh," he said simply.

"The answer is 'yes', by the way."

"Stiles." His exasperation sounded forced, even to his own ears. Trust Stiles to throw a wrench in his carefully laid plans. Who else but Stiles would do things in reverse, and answer the question before the question was even asked? Then again, he couldn't imagine it happening any other way.

With a resigned sigh, he gave the younger man a quick kiss on his forehead before walking over to retrieve the ring.

"Really?" Stiles asked as he followed Derek's progress. "The broom closet? Is that your passive aggressive way of asking me to pull my own weight with the cleaning around here?"

Derek smiled at Stiles' spot-on observation. "No comment," he threw back stoically, even though he was seconds away from a full-on grin. He returned to Stiles, ring in hand. He had to remind himself that the last time he'd held the thing, nothing had been real, that everything had just been a manifestation of his own fears. 

And the reminder worked to a certain extent. The _very solid_ piece of metal in his hand now represented the _very real_ hopes and dreams he had for them. Stiles belonged to him, just as much as he belonged to Stiles, and nothing or no one would ever take that from him. Resolved by the promise, and warmed by the love reflected in the man before him, he held out the ring with a steady hand. "Stiles Stilinski, will you marry me?"


End file.
